On the Side of the Angels
by Motaki
Summary: This is a rewrite of everything, from A Study in Pink to Reichenbach and beyond, with one twist: everybody has wings. Only slightly AU- follows the canon plot directly with only very slight changes. Chapter Eight, "DI Lestrade", shows the drugs bust scene from ASiP, as well as apologetic!Lestrade, and some other stuff I'm too tired to list right now. Tired. Goodnight, folks.
1. John Watson

_On the Side of the Angels_

A fic that can't really be described as pre- or post- anything

Summary that might not permanently stay in the little box, but needs to be said: This is a rewrite of everything, from A Study in Pink to Reichenbach and beyond, with one twist: everybody has wings. Customarily, plumage color mirrors the personality, often like a bird's.

This is my first AU, guys, so I'm really nervous about it, so yeah… *fidgets* Reviews encouraged, as are suggestions and etcetera…

**Act One**

"A Study in Pink"

**Chapter One:**

"John Watson"

1

_The sun, blindingly bright, maddeningly hot-_

The gunfire, the explosions, the shockwaves that rocked a man's soul-

Flames, dancing, consuming-

The crack of a sniper's rifle-

Pain-

John shot upright in his bed, clutching at his left shoulder. In that instant, he would have been fully prepared to swear that only moments before, a bullet had smashed through it.

It was amazing, the carnage a small piece of metal could wreck on flesh, blood and bone, ripping, breaking, destroying…

Breathing deeply, he dislodged his left wing from the gap between the bed and the wall- it was bloody inconvenient, as whenever he woke from a nightmare, it would catch under the frame holding the mattress- and gingerly tested the joint that had been utterly decimated by the bullet that had gone through it before entering his shoulder.

Sharp spikes of pain echoed from the spot, but the wound was no longer fresh.

He reached around, brushing his fingers over the scar. A clean through-and-through shot, in relation to the fact that he supposed it could have been worse, but the bones, being hollow for flexibility, weren't designed to handle the force and shock of a blow from a sniper's bullet.

While the flesh wound from the bullet itself was actually fairly small, the bone itself had cracked all the way down to his shoulder on one side, and for three feet towards the tip on the other.

Not all of the shards had necessarily stayed inside the skin, either. That had led to acquiring both a separate scar and the need for a stiff wing-cover to hold the bones in place.

Accustomed to wearing one of those covers, although more flexible than the medical ones- they were frequently used, as a specially-designed piece of clothing that covered the entire wing and the primaries, masking the native color- John was used to the highly uncomfortable feeling of his feathers being pinched and his wingspan shortened by it.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

**

Later, pulling his laptop out of the drawer- carefully ignoring the gun underneath it- and setting it on the desk, he quickly pulled up his site.

Write a blog, she'd said. Put down whatever happens to you, say what you want to.

But was there anything to be said?

**

"How's your blog going?"

John considered. "Yeah, good." He cleared his throat. "Very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

"You just wrote _still has trust issues."_

"And you read my writing upside-down. You see what I mean?"

John offered a half-smile.

"John," Ella began, leaning forward, her wings- too close to a falcon's coloring for John's comfort- coming around from the back of the chair to rest against her shoulders more comfortably. "You're a soldier. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will _honestly_ help you."

"Nothing happens to me."

_**_

Review, suggest, and the like: was it good, was it horrible, should I go forth and die quietly in a corner?

_{Question: __what__was__I__thinking__, writing two fanfics at the same time? Goodbye, life.}_


	2. Sherlock Holmes

**Sherlock Holmes**

2

_{Man, Chapter One got fistfuls of positive feedback. Yay!}_

{Bold chapter names, so far, mean Major Character Introductions. In theory. xD}

_{I totally forgot the victim cameos from the beginning. As I don't really see a need to transcribe them… *shrug* But we'll do Lestrade's conference, eh?}_

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night in a building site in greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson, and James Philimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

One of the reporters held out his hand. "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"

Lestrade shifted slightly, his wings- plumage closely resembling a Great Grey Owl's, rather fittingly- comfortably clasped against the back of the chair.*

_{*If anyone misunderstands this, it can create quite the conundrum: for clarity, if you walk up to a chair and touch the part of the backrest that you aren't touching, the outer side, that is the side the wings rest against if you're sitting. It's a simple motion of extending them slightly as you sit and enclosing the backrest inside of them. Over time, it becomes as natural a motion as slipping sideways on to a chair. Yeah, I spend a lot of time thinking about the physics of this.}_

"Well, they all took the same poison," he began. "They were all found in places they have no reason to be. None of them have shown any prior indication of-"

"You can't have serial suicides," the reporter interrupted.

"Well, apparently you can."

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" another reporter asked.

"There's no link to be found _yet,_ but we're looking for it- there has to be one," Lestrade said.

At that moment, every phone in the room synonymously went on alert.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," Donovan announced.

"It just says _'Wrong',_" the first reporter told her.

"Yeah, well just ignore that. If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"If they're suicides, what are you investigating?" the second reporter asked.

"As I say, these- these suicides are clearly linked. It's- it's an unusual situation, we've got our best people investigating-"

And again, the phones sounded.

"Says _wrong,_ again," the first reporter said.

"One more question," Donovan called, studiously ignoring that comment.

"Is there any chance that these are _murders,_ and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" Yet another reporter joined the fray.

Lestrade smirked. "I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides; we know the difference. The poison was clearly self-administered-"

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders," the third reporter interrupted, "how do people keep themselves safe?"

"Well, don't commit suicide," Lestrade offered.

The reporter looked put-out.

"They don't need any more," Donovan muttered under her breath. _{It took me four damn playthroughs to catch that sentence. APPRECIATE IT.}_

_{At this point, I've spent an entire hour crafting this chapter. 2:30 AM to 3:30 AM. That's dedication.}_

"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

Yet again, the text alert noise sounded.

This time, it reached Lestrade.

He pulled his mobile out from under his coat.

_You know where to find me._

-SH

He sighed, pocketing it.

"Thank you," Lestrade murmured, standing.

*

"You've got to stop him doing that. He's making us look like idiots."

"If you can tell me _how_ he does it, I'll stop it!"

**

_Click-click, click-click, click-click, click-click, click-click-_

The sound of the cane only served to grind against his consciousness, irritating him further.

"John?" a voice called. "John Watson?"

John turned.

"Stamford," the other said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together." _{Another one of those tricky little pieces of speech. Damn.}_

"Yes, sorry- Mike, yes, hello, hi."

"Yes, I know. I've gotten fat."

"No," John disagreed automatically, for tact's sake.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at," Mike wondered. "What happened?"

John looked down at his cane, then half-shrugged. "I got shot."

*

_{What is it with these little words that they go "dskjgkj" on and I just go "WTF come again?" with? Uncool.}_

Later, sitting on a bench, sharing coffee in companionable silence, John was the first to break the silence.

"So you're still at Bart's, then?"

Mike nodded. "Teaching now. Bright, young things like we used to be. God, I hate them."

They half-laughed.

"What about you, just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension," John muttered.

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," Mike finished. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the John Watson," John said abruptly. He fisted his left hand several times, his left wing shuddering involuntarily.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asked after a pause.

"Like that's going to happen," John scoffed.

_{Tacking "scoffed" after "John" makes him sound ten times older. Just saying.}_

"I don't know," Mike shrugged, "you could get a flatshare, or something."

"Come on," John wondered, "who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike snickered quietly.

"What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

**

With a quick, confident motion, he unzipped the body bag.

He sniffed. "How fresh?"

"Just in," Molly said, walking around the table. "Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."

He zipped the bag back up.

"Fine." He faced her. "We'll start with the riding crop."

*

After witnessing his passionate outburst, Molly hesitantly stepped forward.

"So," she began, "bad day, was it?"

He drew his pocketbook out from his jacket, jotting down a note. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes; a man's alibi depends on it. Text me." He rolled his shoulders, regretting the fact that the morgue room was too narrow to effectively spread his wings, as the joints felt incredibly stiff.

Molly gathered herself, pulling her own against her back a touch more firmly to ground herself. The fluorescents were hardly flattering on her soft-brown feathers, and even less so on the cream-colored speckles scattered throughout. It served to make her more self-conscious.

_{Imagine: Little Owl}_

"Listen, I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished-"

He looked at her. "Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before."

In mortification, her feathers pulled closer to her wings, making her look substantially smaller. "I, ah… I refreshed it a bit."

He nodded. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

He put away his pocketbook. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."

Molly let the tips of her primaries touch the floor.

"Okay."

*

He was entirely focused on the petri dish when the knock sounded on the door, completing his task before he looked up.

"Well," John murmured, "a bit different from my day."

"You have no idea." Mike smirked, and stepped aside to watch the show.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" The stranger spoke for the first time. "There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry; it's in my coat."

"Ah, here," John interrupted. "Use mine."

The stranger lifted his head. "Oh. Thank you."

"It's an old friend of mine- John Watson," Mike interjected as the stranger stood, very, very intentionally shifting the position of his wings just slightly so that they would be more in the view of the obviously-former-army-doctor. Who didn't flinch in the slightest, he noted with intense interest, when his eyes skated over them.

Dull slate grey, the stranger thought to himself, dismissively. Not quite ordinary. But not exactly exceptional.

_{How wrong he was.}_

The stranger flicked the phone open. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Mike smirked again.

"Sorry?" John asked hesitantly.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-"

"Ah, Molly, coffee! Thank you." He handed the phone back to John, taking the mug from her. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Mouth's too…_small _now."

"Okay," Molly said again, exiting the room.

He raised his wings just a touch, finding some relief in the motion as he walked back to the microscope.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the stranger asked.

John shared a look with Stamford, shifting his weight on his cane. "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end- would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Are you- you told him about me?" John asked Mike.

"Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

The stranger shrugged into a jacket. "I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

John looked down at the floor briefly. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London," the stranger said, ignoring him. "We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash: I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it, then?" John said, turning.

"Is that _what?"_ the stranger asked flatly, stepped away from the door.

"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat."

"Problem?"

Another look shared with Stamford.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your _name."_

The stranger considered, pulling his wings together. And then-

"I know you're an army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him- perhaps because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he's recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic- quite correctly, I'm afraid. It's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Just before the last of his pitch-black raven-like feathers disappeared out the door, the stranger peered back in.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked. "Afternoon!"

"Yeah," Stamford confirmed as the door closed. "He's always like that."

**

*crawls into a corner and dies*

Four. Hours. Solid. Work.

In comparison, I typed a 1,200 word chapter for _The Dark Side of the Moon_ in forty-eight minutes, once.

Ugh. TRANSCRIBING, IT IS TIME-CONSUMING


	3. 221B Baker Street

221B, Baker Street

3

John sat on the edge of his bed, then after thinking about it for a moment, pulled out his phone.

_Messages- sent_

_If brother has green ladder arrest brother.  
-SH_

He looked at that for a moment, then went to his desk, opening his laptop.

_Sherlock Holmes,_ he typed into the search engine.

**

He walked, relying rather heavily on his cane, down the sidewalk, before knocking on the door with the number _221B_ in thick, retro-like gold on it.

Next to a café, he noted. That would drive the price rather higher.

"Hello," Sherlock said conversationally, brushing a ruffled ebony-black feather back into place as he exited the cab. The color was entirely uniform, and slightly eerily so, John noted, and the shape rather akin to a hawk's, but not quite the same.

_Raven's wings._

"Mr. Holmes," John said, turning.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock corrected, shaking his hand.

"Well, this is a prime spot," John commented, looking around. "Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal. She owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

John's brow furrowed as he reflexively pulled his wings closer to his back and a bit higher in relation to his neck, an involuntary act of self-defense. "Sorry; you stopped her husband from being executed?"

Sherlock met his eyes dead-on for the first time. "Oh, no, I ensured it."

He smiled slightly, and the door opened.

"Sherlock,' Mrs. Hudson said warmly, embracing him.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock introduced, stepping back and indicating John.

"Come in," she said, waving him in.

"Thank you," John muttered, noting the color of her feathers as he made it up the short steps- very close to a house sparrow's- and inside.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, following.

*

He waited patiently as John limped up the stairs, then opened the door.

John looked around, taking in the flat- the papers and everything scattered all about, a cow skull on the wall, the occasional black feather lying innocently on spots where they'd caught.

"They keep falling out," Sherlock muttered, correctly interpreting John's line of sight as he brushed a hand along the forward edge of his left wing, self-consciously making sure the ebony feathers had remained in place. "And they keep growing back the same color. It's irritating, how uniform they are."

John nodded understandingly. "This could be nice," he said. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled, just a touch. "I thought so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleared out-" John stopped abruptly, looking at him. "Oh."

Sherlock turned, beginning to start to put things slightly in order.

"So this is all yours, then."

'Well, obviously, I can, um, straighten things up a bit." He stabbed a few letters to the mantelpiece with what looked to be a cousin of a Swiss army knife.

John pointed with his cane. "That's a skull."

Sherlock looked at it. "Friend of mine." He looked at it again. "When I say _friend…"_

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you're be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," John said, frowning.

_{Mrs. Hudson: the first canonical Johnlock shipper}_

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here! Mrs. Turner next door's got _married ones."_ She said the last two words like an incredibly intimate secret before going to the kitchen.

"Sherlock," she almost _tsked_ in a disappointed way (the man in question looking over at the sound of his name), "the mess you've made."

John chose an armchair, fluffed the Union Jack pillow to his liking, and settled in.

As Sherlock checked over a laptop- he would have been unable to sanely express why he felt such a desperate need to impress, possibly because of the Mystery of the Merlin's Colours, as he liked to think of it- John flicked a finger at it.

"I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock looked to him. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website- 'The Science of Deduction'?"

Sherlock half-smiled, shifted his weight and nodded, seeming like a bird pleased with what it had brought its mate. "What did you think?"

John looked at him askance.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, frowning.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John asked.

Sherlock only looked mysterious before turning to look out the window.

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson wondered, coming back out of the kitchen with a paper in her hands. "Thought that'd be right up your street. Three, exactly the same."

"Four," Sherlock said, stepping closer to the window and watching the police car pull up. "There's been a fourth. But there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

There was the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs; Lestrade caught himself at the top, leaning back slightly as he realigned his wings, folding them back into a more natural position from his run up.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade panted.

Only John was at the right angle to see the slight shift in Sherlock's feathers as they raised a touch, a sure sign of adrenaline's presence. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah."

"This one did."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to brighten.

"Will you come?"

He seemed to think for a second. "Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson," Lestrade replied, knowing full well what that meant.

Sherlock scowled. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant!"

"I _need_ an assistant."

"Will you come?" Lestrade sighed.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," Lestrade murmured, dipping his head before departing, his feathers nicely complimented in the half-light.

_{Things I Learned While Transcribing, #1: Lestrade __bowed__ to Sherlock right there and I never noticed}_

John looked incredibly confused as Sherlock held himself still, the dusky light dancing over his pitch-black feathers and bringing out exquisite detail in every one it touched.

As soon as the door closed downstairs, he gave an ecstatic little jump. _"Brilliant!"_ Sherlock cried out, turning back towards the window then walking through the room. "Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas." He picked his coat up off the chair. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up."

_{As I type this, I'm actively juggling __two__ text chats, and transcribing from A Study in Pink at the same time. Skills.}_

_{Both chats are in pure caps, if you're wondering, and I have yet to learn you to coax my phone to do capslock.}_

"Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

_"Damn my leg!"_ John snapped violently. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes, this bloody thing-" He smacked his cane against it.

"I understand, dear. I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you." He grabbed the paper that had somehow made its way under his arm.

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits, too, if you've got them."

_"Not your housekeeper."_

John leaned forward, unconsciously stretching his wing-arms uncomfortably as he focused on the article.

_DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation_

"You're a doctor."

John looked over at Sherlock.

"In fact, you're an army doctor."

He stood. "Yes."

"Any good?"

Subconsciously, he held his wings higher again, his shoulders squaring in a soldier's stance. "Very good."

"You've seen a lot of injuries, then," Sherlock said, putting on his gloves. "Violent deaths."

"Mhm. Yes."

"Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes."

**

*crawls into a corner and dies* Now, to write up chapter 52 of _The Dark Side of the Moon._ Jesus. DEDICAAAAATION


	4. Pink

Pink

4

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

Mrs. Hudson, standing at the bottom of the stairs, called out. "Both of you?"

Sherlock turned back from nearly going out the door. "Impossible suicides, four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!"

He kissed her on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she insisted, but thumped her hand against his shoulder, encouraging him towards the door.

"Who cares about _decent?_ The _game,_ Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock grinned, "is _on!"_

Walking out to the road, he held out his arm. "Taxi!"

*

_{Happy Sherlock = Cute Sherlock}_

_{Yes, I'm allowed to make little notes like this, it's my story, my transcription, and you're just going to have to deal with it}_

Sherlock looked up from his phone, sensing John rather unsubtly staring at him.

"Okay, you've got questions."

_Far too many to ask over a cab drive,_ John thought. "Yeah, where are we going?"

Sherlock gave him an _are-you-seriously-asking-me-that-of-all-things_ look. "Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective…"

"But?" Sherlock queried, raising his eyebrows.

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

Sherlock smirked. "I'm a _consulting_ detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs," John said, his face showing how ridiculous he thought the idea was.

Sherlock gave him another look.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. You seemed surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I _saw."_

He thought back to that moment at Bart's.

"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room-"

_'Bit different from my day'_

"-said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. When you saw my wings- plumage reflects personality, hence most people are highly unnerved by pure black, which is rather rare- you didn't so much as twitch, which means you've got a basic understanding of the fact that things are almost always not remotely what they seem. You wear a stiff, medical-grade wing cover even though you could go for a more comfortable civilian brand, or have one custom-made. You're used to having your wings uncomfortably restrained, though, so that means that you went into combat at a time when custom-made covers were in such a backlog that you had to make do. Hasty deployment, wounded in action, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I have a therapist."

"You have a psychosomatic limp. Of _course_ you have a therapist.

"Then there's your brother."

_{Your lungs, Sherlock *stretches fingers*}_

"Your phone: it's expensive, email-enabled MP3 player. You're looking for a flatshare; you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches, not one, but many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins." By now, he had John's phone in his hand. "The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. So, it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving."

"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this in a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now Clara," Sherlock said, his voice low and fiendish, "who's _Clara?_ Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months old and he's just given it away? If _she'd_ left _him,_ he'd have kept it- people do, sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it- _he_ left _her._ He gave the phone to you; that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help," _an idea I understand entirely,_ "that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

"How," John managed, "can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiled. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. The power connection; tiny little scuff marks all along the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." He handed the phone back to John. "There you go, you see, you were right."  
_  
"I_ was right. Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

"That," John said slowly, "was amazing."

Sherlock shifted his wings slightly, looking at him again. "You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

_{Things I Learned While Transcribing, #2: John likes to repeat himself}_

"That's not what people who know me say," Sherlock muttered, trying to restrain the flare of pride he felt.

"What do 'people who know me' say?"

_{Things I Learned While Transcribing, #3: John likes to refer to himself as either a plural 'us' or as a different person}_

"'Piss off!'"

John grinned.

*

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked, rolling his shoulders. Damn, his wings were _still_ stiff.

John, in comparison, quietly pulled his own into their usual place on his back. "Harry and I don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up… three months ago, and they're getting a divorce. And Harry… is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And _Harry_'s short for _Harriet."_

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"Harry's your sister."

"Yeah, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

_"Sister!"_

"No, seriously, what?"

"There's always something." He walked up to the police line. A woman, dark-skinned with the wings of a tawny owl, walked up to it.

"Hello, freak," she greeted casually.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock changed the position of his wings so that they began to stretch out just a touch, the dark-as-night edges complimenting his coat perfectly.

It was an aggressive gesture.

"Why?"

"I was invited," he said stiffly.

"Why," Donovan grated out.

"I _think_ he wants me to take a look," Sherlock theorized.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally." He lifted the line himself and ducked under it.

Then he sniffed the air. "I even know that you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't…" She stopped as he began to lift the tape for John to come through. "Er, who's this?"

"A colleague of mine. Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan… an old _friend."_

"A colleague," Sally repeated slowly. "How do _you_ get a colleague? What, did he follow you home?" she asked John.

"Would it be better if I just waited-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted firmly, holding the tape over his head.

John slipped under it.

"Freak's here, bringing him in," Sally reported into a radio.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock said as a man came out of the building. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant."

"It's for _men,"_ Sherlock breathed.

"Well, of _course _it's for men, I'm wearing it!" Anderson snapped.

"So's Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock cut in flatly.

He took in a sharp breath. "Ooh, I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply," Anderson warned, holding up a finger, every dull-taupe feather on his wings beginning to rise-

"I'm not implying anything! I'm sure Sally came around for a nice little chat, and happened to stay over." In the doorway, he turned back. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

They went in.

"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock said, gesturing at the table with crime scene suits on it for John's benefit.

"Who's this?" Lestrade wondered.

"He's with me," Sherlock commented, taking off his leather gloves for latex ones.

"But who is he?"

"I said," Sherlock suddenly lowered his tone, again spreading his wings slightly, _"he's with me."_

"Aren't you going to put one on?" John asked.

Sherlock only stared, while Lestrade let himself laugh mentally. Apparently, the man didn't know Sherlock Holmes well if he expected him to give up the ability to flare his coat dramatically.

"So, where are we?"

"Upstairs."

As John followed Sherlock, Lestrade called after them.

"But what about his wings?"

_Why does he talk about me like I'm not here?_

"He's already wearing a cover, can't you see, you _idiot?"_

*

"I can give you two minutes."

Going up a second spiral staircase, Sherlock followed Lestrade. "I may need longer."

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long," he added, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock. "Some kids found her."

In the incredibly low-quality room, they found her.

Looking at her wings, Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he held out a hand, palm-down.

"Eurasian Dotterel," John volunteered. "We saw them in Afghanistan occasionally. A type of wading piper infamous for the fact that the female will leave the male to raise the young."

_{I knew there was a type of bird that did this. It involved a ten-minute Wikipedia search, and then bothering myself to find the Eurasian species that did it. It gave John usefulness.}_

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Thank you."

Then-

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade defended himself.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Lestrade gave John a _seriously?_ sort of look.

Sherlock stepped forward, looking at the body.

_Rache,_ _scratched into floor with her own fingernails- n., German, revenge._

Or…

…_Rachel?_

_Chipped fingernails- lefthanded_

_Coat- wet._

Umbrella in pocket: dry.

Under collar: wet.

He drew out a pocket magnifier.

_Ring- clean. Bracelet- clean. Necklace- clean. Wedding band and ring—__dirty.___

He looked at the design.

_Unhappily married, 10+ years_

He slipped the band off of her finger, examining the inside of it.

_Clean as a mirror._

Outside:

_Utterly filthy._

_Frequently removed._

_Serial adulterer._

He smiled to himself.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stood, taking off his gloves and pulling out his phone. "Not much."

"She's German," Anderson said from the door. _"Rache-_ German for revenge. She _could_ be trying to tell us something-"

_{Anderson, saying "Rache" was the sexiest thing you will ever do.}_

_{Things I Learned While Transcribing, #4: Anderson likes to talk with his hands}_

"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock shut the door in his face, looking at his phone.

"Well, she's German?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

John's eyes widened. "Sorry- _obvious?"_

_{TILWT, #5: John is very apologetic}_

"But what about the message?" Lestrade insisted.

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, ignoring him, "what do you think?"

"The message?" John asked.

"The body, Doctor Watson."

"We have a team-"

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here-"

"Yes, because you need me."

A pause.

"Yes, I do," Lestrade easily admitted. "God help me."

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock repeated.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself," Lestrade surrendered, going out the door when John looked at him inquisitively. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

_{TILWT, #6: there are a __lot__ of things said nonverbally in this story}_

They both knelt down beside the body, on either side. "Well?" Sherlock asked.

"What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

_What have I gotten myself into?_ John wondered, but pulled his bad leg underneath himself all the same as Lestrade re-entered.

He leaned close to the body, taking a breath, then examining her hand.

"Yeah." He stood. "Asphyxiation. Probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure- possibly drugs…"

"You know what it was. You've read the papers."

"Well… she's one of the suicides?"

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said, I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood. "Victim is in her late thirties, profession person, I'm guessing in the media, going by the rather alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night, it's obvious by the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

"Suitcase, yes, she's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, _if you're just making this up-"_

"Her wedding ring! It's ten years old, at least. The rest of her jewelry's been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is cleaner than the outside, hence it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. As for what she does for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so who or what does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"It's brilliant," John praised.

Sherlock looked at him.

"Sorry."

"Cardiff?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me," John murmured.

"Egad," Sherlock said softly. "What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. Her _coat._ It's slightly damp; she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London anywhere in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too; she had it up against the wind. " He gestured vaguely. "She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. So it's not just wind, it's strong wind- too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she couldn't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat's still wet. So! Where has there been rain and heavy wind in that distance and time?" He held out his phone. "Cardiff."

"It's fantastic!" John cried out.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

Sherlock mirror the half-nod he'd given. "No, it's fine."

"Why do you keep saying 'suitcase'?" Lestrade prompted.

"Yes, where is it?" he wondered, looking around. "She must have had a phone, or an organizer. Find out who _Rachel_ is."

"She was writing _Rachel?"_

"No, she was writing an angry note in German," Sherlock mocked, going face-to-face with Lestrade. "Of _course_ she was writing Rachel. The only word it can be. The question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"So how do you know she had a suitcase?"

"Back of her right leg." He pointed. "Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on her left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Couldn't get that splash pattern in any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, it could only be an overnight bag, so she was only staying one night. Now where is it, what have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case."

Sherlock looked up from his further examination of the body.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

"Suitcase!" Sherlock shouted, going to the door and down the stairs. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there's no case!" Lestrade shouted back, going to the head of the stairs.

"They take the poison themselves, chew, swallow the pills themselves," Sherlock insisted. "There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!"

"Right, yeah, thanks. _And?"_

Sherlock looked up from the bottom of the stairs. "It's murder. All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings. _Serial_ killings." He clapped his hands. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those, there's always something to look forward to."

"Why are you saying that?"

"Her case!" Sherlock cried, stopping his journey down the second flight of stairs. "Come on, where's her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case!" Softer, he seemed to be speaking to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here. Forgotten the case was in the car."

"She could have checked in at the hotel, left the case there?" John suggested.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color-coordinated her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking li-"

He stopped midsentence, raising his hands.

_"Oh,"_ he breathed softly. He took another deep breath, stepping back and bringing his hands together with a sharp sound. _"OH!"_

"Sherlock? What is it, what?" Lestrade demanded.

"Serial killers are always hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"No, we're done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we _have_ our mistake! Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah, but _what mistake!"_ Lestrade shouted at him.

Sherlock darted back into sight.

_"PINK!"_

**

…*dies*

Off to type up Chapter Fifty-Three of _The Dark Side of the Moon._ Love is appreciated. It makes this thing all worth it.

Highlight of next chapter: a scene from the pilot! YAY!


	5. The Archenemy

The Archenemy

5

_{…I thought I'd be done with A Study in Pink by Five, and we've barely started… about a third of the way through… xD}_

"Let's get on with it," Anderson called, going through the door; John stepped to the side, letting Lestrade through.

He hunched his shoulders slightly, then began to make his way down the stairs.

He carefully ignored the officer who gave him a _what are you doing here_ look as he passed.

*

Outside, he looked around, then unsure of what else to do, walked towards Sally.

"He's gone," she said when he looked again.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

John nodded. "Right." He shifted uneasily, pulling his wings even closer together defensively. "Right. Yes. Sorry, where am I?"

She looked at him in a pitying way, and he hated it. "Brixton."

"Right. Do you know where I could, ah, get a cab? It's just… well, my leg."

Another pitiful look. She lifted the tape.

"Try the main road."

"Thanks."

"You're not his friend," Donovan said to him when he went under the tape and began to walk away. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm… I'm nobody. I just met him."

"Then take a bit of advice and stay away from that guy."

"Why?"

"You know why he's here?" When John didn't reply, she continued. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off, and you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" Lestrade shouted.

"Coming!" she yelled back.

As she walked away, she looked over her shoulder.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," Sally advised.

John stared after her, then turned, limping towards the main road.

About a quarter of the way there, he just happened to look to his right. A movement on the periphery of his vision caught his eye.

John looked up.

Silhouetted against the moonlight, Sherlock stood on the rooftop, his eyes as keen as a hawk's as he scanned the area below. He leaned forward slightly, and spread his wings fully for balance.

And his wings, his _wings,_ every feather perfectly formed and elegant beyond word, the tips elevated above his head, were magnificent. The bones stretched, and the primaries showed individually, the largest nearly as long as John's arm.

Awed, John looked towards the scene, then back to Sherlock, who'd turned towards him, the wind blowing in his hair. He brought his wings closer to his body, just a bit, in a position like a stooping falcon, and turning, disappeared.

_{Scene from the Pilot, #1: moonlight silhouette scene that is so epic}_

To his right, the phone booth began to ring.

John considered, then ignored it.

*

_{Mycroft: serious creep}_

Along the main road, he tried to hail a taxi, but it failed to stop.

And again, the phone rang.

Somebody reached for it, then withdrew their hand.

He ignored it again.

And once again, the phone rang as he walked by it.

John stopped, staring at it, then feeling ridiculous, stepped into the booth.

_{I'm getting TARDIS feels, and I've never watched a single second of Doctor Who in my life except for a tiny excerpt of the "Everybody Knows Everybody Dies" voiceover speech.}_

He picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

_"There is a security camera on the building to your left."_ John's eyebrows drew together. _"Do you see it?"_

After a long pause, John shifted. "Who's this?" Another pause. "Who's speaking?"

_"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"_

"Yeah, I see it."

_"Watch."_

_{Damn, your voice. Low and rumbly and all… sexy-stalker-like…}_

The camera turned away.

Uneasy, in an involuntary action of the first phase of the fight-or-flight response, John's wings spread slightly, ignoring the fact that due to the bullet wound, that should have been impossible for his left side.

He didn't feel the slightest twinge, but he did feel a touch more secure with the knowledge that he had options.

_"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"_

"M-hmm."

That, too, turned away.

_"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."_

John had to crane his neck to get a good look at it.

That, too, turned away.

"How are you doing this?"

_"Get into the car, Doctor Watson,"_ the voice said as a black, expensive-looking car pulled up. _"I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."_

Someone got out of the driver's-side of the car _{I almost said passenger's: the curse of being American}_ and opened the passenger door, then went back inside.

The phone went dead.

John slowly hung up, then exited the phone booth and went into the car.

*

_{This is most likely the wrong term for a British public phone thingy. As an American who has never seen one in person, this is the best I can do. Sorry, guys!}_

And apparently, somehow, he ended up seated next to a rather attractive woman, having not the slightest clue of where he was going.

The woman seemed entirely engrossed in her phone, clicking away at the keys.

"Hello."

She looked up.

"Hi."

She went back to her phone.

John looked from her back to a typical forward-facing pose, then back to her.

"What's your name, then?"

_{Things I Learned While Transcribing, Number Six: it is impossible to describe a forward-facing position in a car. What was I supposed to say? "He looked at the windshield?" "He stared impassively at the back of the driver's head?"}_

"Ah… Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

She looked at him, and smiled in a _you-really-are-thick,-aren't-you,-you-poor-thing_ sort of way.

"No."

John looked forward again, then behind himself, then back to the front.

_{Insert author-grimace here. John, stop making life difficult with all your looking.}_

"I'm John."

Another one of those smiles. "Yes. I know."

John stared.

_{TILWT, #7: John likes to stare}_

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

And again, another one of those smiles. "Not at all… John."

"Okay."

*

_{"John" no longer sounds like a word to me.}_

The car pulled directly into a warehouse, the headlights washing over the tall man who stood, leaning on a black umbrella, impeccably dressed, his right foot crossed over his left.

_{Impossible To Describe Pose Number One: That Foot-Crossing Thing I Myself Do Regularly}_

A lone chair was before him.

John got out of the car, the quiet clicking of his cane echoing in the massive cavernous reaches of the building.

"Have a seat, John," the stranger offered, indicating the chair with his umbrella.

"You know, I've got a phone," John said, walking forward. "It's very clever and all that, but, ah, you could have just phoned me. _On my phone."_

"When one is avoiding the intention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet- hence this place," the stranger said, indicating the area with his umbrella. "Your leg must be hurting you." This phrase was accompanied by one of the more unnerving smiles John had encountered. "Sit down."

_{Well, the smile was creepy as hell, what do you expect me to say…}_

"I don't want to sit down," John replied in a low voice. _Sitting would mean a lower position; submission. Don't give ground._

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

_{John is having none of your bullshit.}_

The man laughed. "Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one," John parried easily. "I barely know him. I just met him… yesterday."

"Mhm. And since yesterday, you've moved in with him. Now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?" John asked, changing the subject.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

Suddenly, John longed for a glimpse of the stranger's wings, but all he could see was a dark brown, which was entirely inconclusive.

The stranger only smirked. "You've met him. How many _friends_ do you imagine he has?"

John said nothing.

"I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," the man explained patiently, shifting his weight.

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he would probably say his arch-enemy. He _does_ love to be dramatic…"

John looked around. "Well, thank God you're above all that."

His phone beeped; John pulled it out.

_Baker Street.  
Come at once if convenient.  
SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you," the stranger managed to say in a rather mocking tone.

"Not distracting me at all," John replied conversationally, looking up from his phone and putting it away.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong," John began, "but I _think_ that's none of your business."

"It could be," the stranger warned.

"It _really_ couldn't," John breathed, letting an edge of threat creep into his voice.

"If you do move into, ah, _two hundred and twenty-one B,_ Baker Street," the stranger started, drawing a pocketbook out from under his coat, "I'd be prepared to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to… _ease_ _your way."_

"Why."

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for… what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… _uncomfortable_ with, just tell me what he's up to."

"Why."

_{John is definitely having none of your crap.}_

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"That's nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship."

John's phone pinged again; he pulled it out.

_If inconvenient, come anyway.  
SH_

"No."

"I haven't mentioned a figure-"

"Don't bother."

The stranger laughed again. "You're _very_ loyal, _very_ quickly," he said.

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interesting." The idea of being somebody's dog disgusted him, and made his feathers raise, the action making the slate-grey color work to his advantage, giving a rather sinister effect.

The stranger sighed, pulling out his pocketbook again. "Trust issues, it says here," he said, brandishing it slightly.

John swallowed. "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?"

The stranger looked up, and danger was in his eyes, his voice perilously low. "You tell me."

John tilted his head, and the turned around, beginning to walk back to the car.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see by your left hand that's not going to happen."

John stopped; his shoulders slumped, his feathers lowering.

_Great. Another one. What are the chances?_

He shook his head, then turned.

"My what?"

"Show me."

Feeling utterly ridiculous, John squared his shoulders, then spread the fingers of his left hand, holding it over his chest instinctively.

The stranger stepped forward, reaching for it.

_"Don't."_

The man gave him a _my-patience-is-being-tested_ look.

Stiffly, John held his hand out, palm-down. The stranger firmly took it, examining it briefly.

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

Turning away- and John instantly discarded his first look of the stranger's wings, because he'd never heard of a human miming that particular bird- the stranger punctuated his point with waves of his umbrella.

"Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." The stranger turned back. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." John pursed his lips and nodded. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

John clenched his jaw. Fury gleamed in his eyes. "Who the hell are you? How do you know that?"

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." John looked down at it. "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it."

He leaned forward.

_"Welcome back."_

The stranger walked away, spinning his umbrella in a most carefree way, and he spread his wings halfway to their full breadth, stretching the joints. In the better light at that angle, and with a longer look, there was no denying it.

He had a golden eagle's plumage.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

His phone pinged again.

_Could be dangerous.  
SH_

"I'm to take you home," Anthea said from behind him, her eyes still on her phone.

John pulled out his own and read the text.

He put it away, looking at his hand.

"Address?"

"Ah, Baker Street. 221B, Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."

**


	6. Psychosomatic

Psychosomatic

6

Inside his flat, John flicked the lightswitch, glancing at the window before going to his desk.

Sherlock had said _dangerous,_ after all…

He took the gun out of the drawer, checking the magazine before tucking it into the familiar spot on the small on his back.

*

Feeling substantially more confident, John took off his seatbelt.

Before leaving the car, he looked at Anthea.

"Listen, your boss," he asked in a low voice, "any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

She looked at him in return. "Sure."

"You've told him already, haven't you."

She gave him that pitiful look again. "Yeah."

He resigned himself to the fact, then opened the door, but before leaving, turned back to her.

"Hey, ah, do you ever get any, ah, free time?"

She snickered quietly. "Oh yeah. Lots."

After a pause, she looked up.

"Bye."

"Okay."

_{John says 'okay' a __lot.__}_

*

In 221B, Sherlock pressed a hand to his forearm, then sighed deeply.

_{There are no words to describe that sound that has made females everywhere fall out of their chairs.}_

He flexed his fingers as John entered.

"What're you doing?"

"Nicotine patch." He pulled back his sleeve. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

"Good news for breathing."

"Ah, breathing. Breathing's boring."

"Is that- _three_ patches?"

The detective adjusted his left wing, moving it from being wedged between himself and the couch to partially hanging over the back of the couch. It didn't look particularly comfortable to John, but the joint popped audibly, which he supposed had been the goal. The right slumped at his side, the feathers hitting the floor in such a way that made John's inner doctor shudder.

"It's a three-patch problem." He stretched his right wing, making John have to skitter back suddenly to avoid stepping on the primaries, and forcing him to make a detour in light of the new obstacle as he brought his hands together and pressed his fingertips to his chin.

_For Christ's sake, have a care,_ John thought to himself, critically examining the way the feathers had been carelessly ground into the floor. _If you didn't bent any of them, you'll be lucky, and now you'll have dust and dirt that'll creep down to your skin and make God-awful abrasions that hurt like fire, I had plenty of them in Afghanistan-_

"Well?" John asked, standing by Sherlock's head.

No reply.

"You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important."

Sherlock seemed to awaken with a start. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

John looked at him strangely. "My phone?"

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized, it's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, but she's downstairs," Sherlock dismissed. "I tried shouting, she didn't hear."

"I was on the other side on London," John said stiffly.

"There was no hurry."

John let off an exasperated sigh- _just what have I gotten myself into?-_ but dug in his pocket.

"Here."

_{Weird. Microsoft Word does not recognize the solitary word _here_ with a period after it. Cut off the period? Legal word. Tack it on? No. Anybody know why?"_

Sherlock held out his hand; irritated, John put it into his palm a bit rougher than necessary.

"So this is about the case?"

"Her case," Sherlock murmured.

"Her case?" John asked, still seriously irritated.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?"

"There's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it."

That had been said rather quickly. John looked at him patiently.

"On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text."

Sherlock held out the phone.

John smiled in a humoring way. "You've brought me here, to send a text."

"Text, yes, the number on my desk."

John stretched his shoulders. He spread his right wing, mindful of the left, and lifted in until the joint in his shoulder popped loudly.

It served as a physical diffusion of frustration.

He pulled it back into place before he walked forward, still carefully avoiding stepped on Sherlock's feathers, and took the phone, going back to the desk.

Before he did, he looked around, then went to the window, peering out.

"What's wrong?"

_{Damn it, I have this sort of imagined stiffness at the ends of my shoulder blades. And unlike John, I have no method of alleviating it.}_

"A friend?" Sherlock wondered, raising his eyebrows.

"An enemy."

"Oh." He relaxed. "Which one?"

John stared. "Well, your archenemy," he cleared his throat. "Do people have archenemies?"

Sherlock looked at him, really looked. _Damn it. That explains a great deal._ "Did he offer you money to spy on me?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

Surprised by the bluntness of the question, John paused before answering. His honestly was evident, however. "No."

_Thank you. _"Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

John smiled. "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk. The number."

Almost absently he noted that there was a Rubik's cube that had what looked vaguely like Chinese symbols on it. Hieroglyphics were also a possibility.

_{I'm not making it up about the Rubik's cube.}_

He picked up the slip of paper. "Jennifer Wilson," he read out. "That was- hang on, wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes, that's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yea- _hang on!"_ John shook his head slightly.

"These words exactly. _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come."_

John looked over at him. "You blacked out?"

"What? No. No!" With a sharp motion, he pulled in his wings- and damn it all, four of his right primaries bent, making John visibly wince- and stood.

"Type and send it. Quickly." He walked over to one of the kitchen chairs, grabbing a case off of it and going to the main room.

"Have you sent it?" Sherlock asked, pulling the chair away from the desk and spinning it to face his own.

"What was the address?"

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street! Hurry up."

He adeptly opened the case, then waited.

"That's…" John turned. "That's the case, the pink lady's case. Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously."

John stared.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped in an exaggerated fashion. "Oh, perhaps I should mention I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send, and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

Sherlock half-smirked. "Now and then, yes." He pulled himself more into his chair, perching himself on the back of it with his feet on the seat.

"Okay," John muttered, going to his own chair. "How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?" John asked, collapsing into the chair.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens." He looked to John. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves," he added, indicating it with his hands, "particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So, obviously, he'd be compelled to get rid of it the moment he realized he still had it. It wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake."

John looked at him oddly.

"I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens, and any way you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed." He remembered, vividly, the familiar freedom of travelling across the rooftops. "Took me less an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink."

"Well, it had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that?" John muttered.

"Because you're an idiot."

John looked at him, clearly offended.

_{Why is there so much damn looking?}_

"No, no, no, don't be offended," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Practically everybody is."

John looked away.

"Now look," Sherlock said, pointing. "Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?" he asked bitterly."

"Her _phone._ Where's her mobile phone? There's no phone on the body, no phone in the case. We know she had one, that's her number there, you've just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home."

Sherlock dropped into his seat. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She wouldn't leave it at home."

He again waited while the thought process played out in John's mind.

"Why did I just send that text?" _Bingo._

"Well, the question is, where is her phone now?" Sherlock pulled his wings around from the back of the chair, tucking them into place behind his shoulders.

"She could have lost it?"

"Yes. Or?"

"…The murderer. You think the _murderer_ has the phone."

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, balanced probability is that the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry- _what are we doing?_ Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

The phone rang.

_(Withheld)  
calling_

"Few hours after his last victim and now he gets a text that could only be from her." He listened to it ring. "Somebody found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that. But the murderer…" The phone stopped ringing. "Would _panic."_ He shut the case, standing.

As he pulled on a light jacket, John furrowed his eyebrows.

"Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to _me?"_

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," Sherlock said despairingly.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull," John realized as Sherlock pulled on his regular coat.

"Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well _what?"_ John demanded, exasperated.

"Well, you could just sit there and _watch telly,"_ Sherlock spat as if they were curse words they were philosophically discussing.

"You want me to come with you."

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. A skull just attracts attention, so… problem?" he asked as John laughed quietly.

"Yeah. Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?" Sherlock muttered as he put on his scarf and pulled his coat tighter around himself.

"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."

Sherlock grinned. "And I said dangerous, and _here you are."_

He went out the door.

"Damn it," John snarled, and followed him.

*

"So where are we going?" John asked as they walked through the streets.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" John wondered as he pulled his wings closer for warmth.

"No, I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones, they're so desperate to get caught." In comparison, Sherlock stretched his wings, making John take a quick step forward to avoid being knocked to the ground.

_{I'm not exaggerating here: I got __clipped__ by a Harris Hawk once- a bird that weighs two pounds- and it nearly knocked me out. Imagine the power a human would have.}_

"Your feathers are still slightly out of order," he noted, watching as Sherlock pulled them back in.

"Are they?" Sherlock made a noncommittal sound.

"Why are the brilliant ones so desperate to get caught?" John queried.

"Appreciation! Applause, a blast of the spotlight. It's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."

"Yeah," John muttered. _Look who's talking._

"This is his hunting ground," Sherlock breathed, turning around and looking behind them briefly. "Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything, because every one of his victims disappeared from busy places, streets, but nobody saw them go. _Think!"_ he exclaimed, holding his hands by his head. "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed everywhere they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"I don't know. Who?"

Sherlock lowered his hands. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

*

He opened the door of a restaurant without preamble, causing the busboy standing by it to look up and then indicate the table in front of the window.

"Thank you, Billy." He sat facing the window; John in a spot where he could easily turn and watch it.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street," Sherlock said, taking off his scarf and coat. "Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just going to ring the doorbell, though, isn't he? He'd be mad."

"He has killed four people."

"Okay."

A man walked up to their table, a fair-sized sort of man who bore his age well, his wings like a common buzzard's.

"Sherlock," he greeted warmly, shaking his hand. "Whatever you want, anything you want on the menu, free. On the house, for you and your date."

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not his date," John clarified.

"This man," Angelo said, "he got me off a murder charge."

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduced. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder Angelo was in a completely different part of town housebreaking."

"He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing. But for this man, I'd have gone to prison if he hadn't-"

"You did go to prison."

"I'll get a candle for the table. Bit more romantic."

"I'm not his date," John called after him.

Sherlock set the menu at the corner of the table. "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."

Angelo set a candle on the table.

"Thanks," John muttered.

_{Let it be shown: several thousand words, and we are at __exactly__ 50:00}_

After a pause, with Sherlock tapping his fingers on the table while watching the building opposite, John spoke.

"People don't have archenemies."

Sherlock looked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. It doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So, who did I meet?"

"What do real people have, in their real lives?"

"Friends." John nodded. "People they know, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Well, as I was saying. Dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then."

"Girlfriend, no. Not really my area."

John considered. "Alright. Do you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock looked at him again, amused.

"Which is fine, by the way-"

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a boyfriend."

"No," Sherlock answered immediately.

"Right. Okay," John murmured, embarrassed as he made his newly-arrived food a good excuse to not meet Sherlock's eyes. "You're unattached, just like me. Alright. Good."

_{John resorts to simple words when flustered}_

"John, ah…"

John looked up.

"I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm-"

"No. No."

"-really not looking for anything-"

"No. I'm not asking… _no,_" he repeated. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

They stared into each other's eyes; Sherlock nodded. "Good. Thank you."

And then-

"Look across the street. Taxi. It's stopped. Nobody getting in, nobody getting out. Why a taxi?" They could see the passenger quite clearly. "Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?"

"Don't stare."

"What? You're staring."

"We can't both stare," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat and standing.

John grabbed his own, and followed.

And left his cane behind.

Outside, Sherlock pulled on his coat, watching the taxi intently. The passenger looked back at them.

And the taxi began to pull away.

Sherlock lunged into the street, vaulting over the hood on the oncoming car; its horn screeched at them as John followed suit, bothering to say "Sorry" as he did so. The two of them slowed down, stopping at the taxi gained speed.

"I've got the cab number," John said.

"Good for you." Sherlock held his hands by his head, as if to hold the thoughts inside.

"Wide turn, one way, no traffic lights. Past light, pedestrian crossing, left-hand only traffic lights."

_{My best rendition of a chunk of "dsksbsdf" speech}_

_Alternate route_

Sherlock set off at a dead sprint.

He roughly shoved somebody out of the alleyway's entrance, earning a loud _"Oi!"_ from them. Again, John apologized in passing, following as close to Sherlock as he could manage.

They raced up stairs, up a steel spiral case- Sherlock calling "Come on, John!" as John's leg protested the sudden and intense use- then down a fire escape, Sherlock lunging from halfway down and John following.

Sherlock instinctively spread his wings slightly, dampening his landing considerably; harsh spikes of pain shot through John's left shoulder when he attempted the same, and thus made his own reacquaintance with the ground considerably worse than it had to be.

Gathering himself, he began to fall behind.

And there it was, a dangerous rooftop-to-rooftop jump; Sherlock took it fearlessly, John catching himself at the edge, extending his right wing for balance as he stepped back.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock called again. "We're losing him!"

John looked at him, then jumped.

He found himself quite envious of the younger man's agility- his leg weighing him down, disuse having made it weak- as he struggled past obstacles Sherlock cleared with ease, going from the roof to the fire escape without so much as the slightest hesitation.

Then it was a mad dash through the streets, utter insanity through the alleyways-

"No, no," Sherlock snarled. "This way! No, _this way!"_

And John, gradually, but very surely, fell behind.

Sherlock turned a corner on a dime, pushing himself off of the wall for a burst of speed; John didn't do it quite as effectively, and lost more ground.

And alone, Sherlock flung himself in front of the taxi.

He pulled a police ID out of his coat.

"Police!" he panted. "Open it up."

He wrenched the passenger door open.

"No," Sherlock muttered. "No. What, Californian?" He looked at the luggage tag. "L.A. Santa Monica. Your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry, are you the police?" the American asked.

"Get out," the driver spat venomously.

_"What?"_

"Get out! If the police are after you, I don't want any part of it. Get out!"

"Jesus, okay!" The American grabbed his luggage out of the cab, pulling it out with him. Sherlock stepped back, letting him out.

As Sherlock looked over his shoulder, he caught and dismissed two movements at the periphery of his vision. The passenger turning around. The cabbie rolling his window back up.

"Do you like drugs, Mr. Holmes?" a voice asked softly in his ear.

His senses seemed to be dulling, his mind slowing. Sherlock shook himself. "Not for a while," he managed. "Why?"

"Because everyone else I used that on passed out by now."

And out of nowhere, with a sudden, hard shock to his system, a rush rolled up from the ground to over his head.

Everything went out of focus.

_Sudden sounds on the pavement- behind- getting closer- footsteps-_

John-

_"Get away from him!" _The voice rang with fury. Metal clicked. Oiled metal, well taken care of-

_A gun._

_The door closing. An engine revving. _

_Air on skin; legs moving; staggering backwards._

_Hands. Warm. Strong. Callused._

John.

And the world went black.

**

I wanted to include the original Angelo's scene somehow. This happened.

Feel free to hate.


	7. Proving a Point: The Subavian Feather

It took me _eight hours_ to write _"Psychosomatic"._

Remind me why I do this, again?

Proving a Point: The Subavian Feather

7

When he saw the cabbie standing next to Sherlock, there were no words for the terror John felt.

Instinct had him drawing his gun. Every single feather on his wings raised off of his skin, like a dog's fur, and when he spread them, ignoring the pain snapping into his left shoulder, the effect was awe-inspiring.

"Get away from him," John snarled venomously. _Or I __will__ shoot you._

The cabbie looked at him hatefully, but clambered back into the cab, and sped away.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," John whispered as the detective staggered back, his eyes unfocused. He braced a hand on the younger man's shoulders, spreading his left wing between them and the road, effectively shielding them from sight.

The steps were familiar: _check pulse._ Unstable, but not weak. Gently, he pressed Sherlock against the wall of the building before checking his flanks.

Interesting, Sherlock noted absently, watching John. So the wing injury was partly psychosomatic. Wings were highly susceptible to such things- an injury could just sit there raw for weeks given an emotional crisis.

Not entirely psychosomatic. Partly real.

Very interesting that John had a sacrificial personality. The subavian feather- the last primary closest to the body- was notable for the fact that the bone-spoke in the wing was exactly aligned with its shaft. John had pressed his wings together, a seam forming cleanly along the edges of the subavian, his wings spread defensively.

If he was bent down, over a body, Sherlock realized, that position would hide the victim completely, and leave John to be the one who was attacked.

_A soldier to the last. Defender. Protector. Hero._

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered.

"I don't believe you," John said shortly, and his voice was the clipped tone of a captain.

"I've got a resistance," Sherlock mumbled. "Really. It wasn't a poison. I'm fine."

"I still don't believe you," John replied, securely gripping his wing-arms and pulling him straighter. He hadn't noticed slumping. "You're definitely not all here."

"Mmm…" Sherlock's head leaned back. _"Teneo forte punctus."_

And right there, he collapsed.

*

_Soft. Warm. Air smells clean._

Home.

_Lethargic,_ _slow muscle reaction, headache…_

_Relapse._

His shoulders slumped with shame.

_Why?_ He asked himself. _Why, you moron, why, what triggered it…_

He couldn't think of anything major that had happened to induce such a thing. _Case. Serial suicides. John Watson. The Mystery of the Merlin's Colours. Jennifer Wilson, the pink case-_

The cab!

The passenger, the false bait, senses dulling- John-

Drugged!

Not a relapse.

He sighed in relief.

"Glad to see you're awake, then."

Sherlock's eyes opened.

"You weren't out long." John stood from his chair, going to Sherlock's side where he laid on the couch. "Didn't trust you to be out of my sight, so I put you here. You didn't seem to mind much."

"You… you carried me back?" Sherlock asked, his throat feeling like someone had shoved shards of glass down it.

"Yeah." He picked a glass of water up off of the table, offering it; Sherlock took it gratefully, drinking deeply. "Not too fast. Anyway, you could really stand to gain some weight, Sherlock."

"Eating takes blood away from the brain," Sherlock muttered. "It's a waste of time."

"Gives you more energy," John disagreed. "But what did you mean, you have a resistance?"

Sherlock looked away. Self-consciously, he shifted his wings. "I… forget it."

John gave him a piercing look-over.

There was the sound of the door opening downstairs- did people pick the lock and just let themselves in whenever they felt like it?

His eyes widened; Sherlock frantically pushed himself upright, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.

"Lestrade," he hissed.

He stood quickly, causing a brutal and sudden headrush; as he swayed, John grabbed his shoulder.

And at that exact moment, Lestrade entered.

"Sherlock-" All it took was one look. Lestrade's eyes narrowed.

"Goddamn it, Sherlock," he said, his voice dangerously low.

"It's not what you think it is," Sherlock snapped, brushing off John's hand. He had to press his wings to the floor to keep his balance. "I swear, Lestrade, it's not-"

"What, did you just get sick of it?" Lestrade sneered. "Just get bored with ordinary murders, decide to seek solace in a needle again?" Even John could hear the hurt hidden behind the bravado. "You made a promise, Sherlock, and then you broke it. It sort of destroys the value of your words."

He turned away.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock pleaded, stepping forward and reaching after him. _"Please!"_

Halfway down the stairs, John could hear Lestrade's voice.

_"Yeah, this is DI Lestrade. I need a sweep done. Drugs bust. 221B. Baker Street."_

Sherlock slumped against the wall as the door closed downstairs, pressing his face into his hands.

"Fuck," he swore quietly.

John looked from him to the stairway, and understood.

"You were an addict."

"For years." A shudder wracked the detective's frame. "I started living on the streets when I was fourteen. Only came off them… eight months ago, now. I've been clean since then, I swear," he whispered. "Not a single relapse. The drugs almost killed me. I wasn't going to go back."

Those jet-black wings were slumped at his sides. John couldn't help but think of a fallen angel.

He stepped forward, laying a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"I'm here. I said that it was all fine. I meant it."

Sherlock peered at him.

In his eyes was pure, untainted gratitude.

**

I must be the illegitimate daughter of Steven Moffat or something. Because these _feels,_ I'm even getting some.

_The feels. _John cares. Sherlock is really, really damn grateful for being accepted. John sticks after learning his flatmate is an addict.

_I am on fire._


	8. DI Lestrade

_DI Lestrade  
_[Or: _"Do these look like the wings of an addict to you?"]_

8

_{A Study in Pink, if all goes according to plan, ends in two chapters. OH MY GOD THE FEELS!}_

"It was the driver of the cab, yes?"

"Yes," John confirmed. "He was nearly on you when I came up to you. Had to threaten to shoot him before he'd leave."

"Hmm." In his chair, watching the fireplace, Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips. "A cab driver. Brilliant."

John chose to let that one slide.

"What are we doing, exactly?"

"Waiting," Sherlock replied shortly.

With a faint smile, John thought of his cane, now hidden deep inside the hallway closet. Angelo had dropped it off soon after they'd made it back.

Point proven: the limp had indeed been psychosomatic.

There was silence.

And then-

"Thank you," Sherlock said, out of the blue.

John blinked. "Sorry?"

"Thanks for, well, you know, saving me," Sherlock muttered. "It was a pretty powerful paralytic he used. He probably could have gotten me. I was off my guard, not expecting it, and when you throw the drug in, the odds weren't in my favor. So... yeah."

John purposely looked towards the window.

"Don't mention it," he murmured, watching the police car pull up.

They both listened as Lestrade walked up the stairs; John squared his shoulders, while Sherlock pulled his wings in closer.

_{If my writing style seems off: I pulled a sleepless night to reset my internal clock, and I'm waving between crash and stable. Blame the brain, and the medically-proven-to-be-useless process of sleep.}_

When Lestrade enters, the look in his eyes is cold disappointment.

"I really didn't think it of you," he admits, taking a seat, and Sherlock feels his blood go cold. "I thought you were beyond it. I really did."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Does the syringe on the table look like one typically made for self-administration, Detective Inspector?"

It had been years since Sherlock last called Lestrade _Detective Inspector._

Lestrade examined it in such a distasteful way that Sherlock's skin crawled with the reflection of it.

"I wouldn't put it past you to use something like that just to try to fool us."

"Now wait just a minute-" John interrupted.

Lestrade snarls quietly, but turns to him. "Who the hell _are_ you, anyway?"

John's eyes narrow, and Sherlock realizes something: this isn't him against Lestrade anymore, it's a battle of powers, the soldier and the inspector.

"Captain John Hamish Watson, M.D., of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," he answers, standing. His eyes are cold with fury.

Lestrade's own eyes widen. He stepped back as John spreads his wings slightly, his feathers raising just a touch as the inspector tried to make himself look smaller.

_"The_ Captain Watson?" he breathed. "Of Afghanistan? You're _him?"_

John nodded.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sherlock demanded.

And of course, the sweeping team decided to choose that moment to enter, completely derailing the conversation.

_{I'm not holding my present/past tenses consistently. Fixed. And I can't even spell consistently right. My brain is fried. Pity the violins…}_

Sherlock watched, disgusted, as they began rooting through the place.

"Look at this," he asked of Lestrade, stretching out his left wing. "Do these look like the wings of an addict?"

Catching the shafts between his fingers, Lestrade was forced to admit that they did not. The feathers were straight and perfectly formed, while an addict's would be stunted and warped.

To make his point further, Sherlock pulled back his left sleeve, exposing the underside of his forearm, then his right. "Not conclusive proof, I'll give you that," he conceded, "but it's a start.

"And finally, if you were to run the fingerprints on that thing that is more like a tranquilizer dart than a syringe, you will find that none of the fingerprints on it are mine."

Lestrade blinked.

"Then what happened, then?"

"You came because you received a report of an attempted abduction barely five minutes from here, didn't you?" Sherlock queried. "Well, apparently, he's a cab driver who drugs unwilling subjects."

"He's a _cabbie?"_ Lestrade repeated.

"Obviously." Sherlock pulled in his wing, standing and experiencing a small flash of triumph when the room failed to spin. "Cab driver. Excellent cover for a serial killer."

"But what about the case, her phone?" John reminded him.

_{Shit, that sounds out of character. I'm screwing this up, aren't I?}_

_The phone._

Sherlock's eyes widened; he snatched John's laptop off of the table.

"John, on the desk, the luggage tag. Email address."

John turned the tag over.

"Jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot UK," he recited.

"And the password is _Rachel,"_ Sherlock finished smugly. "She was clever, cleverer than all of you. She didn't leave her phone; she _planted_ it on him."

"So we can read her emails," Anderson called. "What good will that do?"

"He volunteered-they all did," Lestrade muttered in his ear.

"It's a smartphone," Sherlock snapped. "It has an internal GPS. We'll be able to track it, and find out where it is."

Several things happened in quick succession.

First: the computer pinged.

Second: Mrs. Hudson's footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"It's… here," John whispered. "But how can it be _here?"_

"Maybe it fell out of the case when you brought it back," Lestrade suggested. "And by the way, I'll have your skin for that, too, later."

"And I didn't notice it?" Sherlock spat, standing. _"Me?"_

"Guys, we're also looking for a pink phone!" Lestrade called to the sweeping team. Then it seemed to strike him.

"I'm sorry," he added under his breath. "I… how was I supposed to know?"

"A bit of faith, perhaps, next time, Lestrade," Sherlock said flatly. "Perhaps being not as quick to jump to the worst conclusion. I know that you had a brother who died of an overdose very shortly before you met me, and a week before he OD'd he told you that he was clean. How stupid do you think I am?"

"Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway, "a taxi's just arrived. The driver said it's come for you."

**

_I can't do justice to this chapter in my current state._

I will probably hate it when I wake up.

The chances are pretty good that The Dark Side of the Moon will not be getting an update. Maybe. I don't know.

If not tonight, then two tomorrow, I promise.

The reviewbox exists for a reason, as well. It's right there.


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